


Dreams on fire

by GreenRogue



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF Sherlock, Fluff and Angst, Gun Violence, Kidnapped John Watson, Kidnapping, M/M, PTSD John, Psychological Torture, Romantic Fluff, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-04-01 08:53:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13994808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenRogue/pseuds/GreenRogue
Summary: It's in our dreams that our conscience tries to organize the day's events. It's in our dreams where demons rule our soul. It's in our dreams where we try to come to term with what we beg of ourselves, and where we try to forget our nightmares. It's been months since the pool, weeks since Baskerville, and still Sherlock can't shake the sense that his dreams, although figments of his imagination, are trying to tell him something. John's dreams are more of the same pain and blood. Will they be able to pull each other out of the looping nightmare that is Moriarty? Or will the demon drag them down forever?





	1. Sherlock Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own anything related to Sherlock or the BBC, this is purely a writing of fiction for a good time. There will be some smutty goodness and some not so smutty goodness. Tags will be updated as needed. This is not beta'd. I appreciate reviews :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's in our dreams that our conscience tries to organize the day's events. It's in our dreams where demons rule our soul. It's in our dreams where we try to come to term with what we beg of ourselves, and where we try to forget our nightmares. It's in his dreams Sherlock begins to realize, his heart may be not as lost as he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own anything related to Sherlock or the BBC, this is purely a writing of fiction for a good time. There will be some smutty goodness and some not so smutty goodness. Tags will be updated as needed. This is not beta'd. I appreciate reviews :)

When he did sleep, he dreamed. Often they were forgotten upon waking, but occasionally he could recall glimpses of the fantasies his mind played out. Tonight was no different. Sherlock could vaguely feel warm flesh beneath his hands. Soft moaning vibrated in his ears as a wet, warm heat surrounded his cock. He could feel flashes of pleasure as the dream intensified. His face felt flushed as he ran his hands through the sandy blond hair below him. The head bobbed up and down on him, causing a deep tingle to start at his toes and climb up to his belly.

Sherlock tried to hold onto the remnants of his dream as he waited for the water to boil. His eyes felt crusty and his brain was sluggish. His limbs were stiff as he puttered around the kitchen, the experiments cleaned up sometime in the night. His eyes darted to the far staircase before fluttering over to the leather couch. His flat mate and friend was currently facing away from him. A light snore hummed from his throat, a threadbare blanket lay haphazardly on the floor by his feet. Sherlock felt a ghost of a smile on his lips before the kettle started to whistle. The blond startled awake and Sherlock quickly went to busy himself with the tea.

He could hear John shift on the couch and stretch. In his mind’s eye, he could picture John. Hands over his head, chest stretched and taunt with a deep breath. His mouth watered at the thought, images of John writhing under him as he ran his tongue over one of the dusky nipples.

“Good morning Sherlock.” He startled slightly as John reached around him for one of the mugs. His warm chest bumping into his arm. Mumbling a return salutation, he made his way back towards the solitude of his room. He could feel John’s eyes on the back of his head but he dared not turn around. Sweeping his robe, he shut his door with a satisfying slam and sat down his neglected tea.

Feeling suddenly trapped and claustrophobia he grabbed clothes from the floor, and got dressed in a hurry. Stopping only for a moment to trash the white button down, the chlorine smell still lingering in its fibers. For a brief moment he was back at that pool. John across from him, a dead look in his eyes as he played Moriarty’s puppet.

Shaking himself from the memory, Sherlock briskly walked from his room to the living room and down the stairs. He could faintly hear John shouting his name behind him but he did not falter in his stride. Sherlock needed to think, he needed air. As the door of 221 Baker Street closed behind him, the cool breeze of London’s morning air hit him sharply in the face. The organized bustle of morning commuters wandered around him as he took a moment to gather his bearing. Turning in a random direction, Sherlock flipped up the collar of his coat, kept his head down, and wandered the familiar streets of his jungle. His mind begging him to answer the one question he was afraid to answer, who was John Watson to him?

This revolving chasm of a thought hounded his heels as he rounded around London. To the unobservant, he appeared to be no more than a fellow passerby on his way to work or an appointment. Some attempted to make contact with salutations, others moved just as briskly past him and he did them. The fast pace was welcome exercise as he crossed the narrow alleys and busy streets, his mind moving in a similar fashion up and down the corridors of his palace; trying to escape an inevitable conclusion.

Finally after a few hours, Sherlock chose to stop outside a small coffee café, the smell of caffeine wafting from inside called to his muddled brain and he conceded he needed a fix. A simple order and a few moments later he sat, just inside the doorway staring out the window at the people who hurried by. He occupied himself with brief deductions while he sipped his coffee.

_“Cheating”._

_“Hasn’t seen her parents in 2 years, regrets it”_

_“Big promotion for her, new shoes, uncomfortably a size to small but flatters her calves”._

_“John”._

A familiar figure was walking around the corner on the other side of the street. His head was down but the way the sun glinted from his hair, and the old familiar army jacket he wore was a dead giveaway. He watched him go for a moment, contemplating following him. The look on his face was closed, and his eyes held new lines of worry that were not there a week ago. Sherlock looked down at his now tepid coffee and sighed. Pulling out his mobile he typed a brief message before dumping his coffee and leaving the shop.

 

                -Need to talk, SH

                -You know where to find me, MH

 

The journey to the Diogenes Club was brief, and after a precursor check of the exterior rooms Sherlock was convince his brother had banished the other members for this meeting.

“Brother mine, this is unexpected.” Sherlock merely glanced as his brother entered the intimate library.

_‘Same tie as yesterday, soot smudge on shoes, missing umbrella’_ “Couldn’t sleep older brother? After last night”?

“Yes well, finding ones blood under a pile of rubble after he shot a semtex vest can be…. troubling”. Mycroft motioned towards two high back chairs as he sat. Sherlock remained standing, just off to the side and analyzing the books on the shelves. “Do you care to tell me what this is about”?

“Don’t be daft Mycroft, you know what this is about.”

“John”. A statement rather than a question, Sherlock could her the slight note in his brothers voice of recognition.

“How do I make it stop”?

“Oh Sherlock, you know sentiment is a weakness, but it cannot be stopped. Just, cut out.” Sherlock turned to look at his brother. Their eyes locked and a silent battle of domination crackled in the space between them.

“I’m not cutting him out Mycroft and I forbid you to.” His brother sighed and smoothed away invisible wrinkles before standing.

“Then I trust this, sentiment, will not interfere with your work. We have yet to recover Moriarty and his sniper men. We cannot delay in this brother mine.” Sherlock nodded but had already tuned out what he already knew. This Moriarty both intrigued and terrified him. Like a tangled knot in a fine thread, it would take patience and skill to unravel the enigma before him. Hopefully with a puzzle like this, the sentiment that was weighing heavily on his heart with dissipate.

“Fear not brother, the work always comes first.”

“Good, well I have a case for you, matter of national importance. You’ll need to travel to Scotland for this”.


	2. John Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's in our dreams that our conscience tries to organize the day's events. It's in our dreams where demons rule our soul. It's in our dreams where we try to come to term with what we beg of ourselves, and where we try to forget our nightmares. It's in John Watson's dreams where his demons plague him. But not all demons walk his unconscious mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own anything related to Sherlock or the BBC, this is purely a writing of fiction for a good time. There will be some smutty goodness and some not so smutty goodness. Tags will be updated as needed. This is not beta'd. I appreciate reviews :)

When he did sleep, he had nightmares. Often he was trapped in memories of blood and death, occasionally he could still hear their screams when he woke. Tonight was no different. John could feel the hot desert sun beating down on his exhausted body. A dry arid wind blew stinging sands into his eyes and he could feel flashes of pain as his nightmare dragged him down. His hands felt clammy as blood sluggishly trickled down his chest. His head bobbed up and down with each laboring step, causing his neck to ache. Suddenly the air was replaced by a cold chlorine smell. His neck aching from the weight of the large bomb strapped to his chest rather than his medical bag. Sherlock was in front of him, eyes accusing and cold. The gun glinted in the florescent lights of the pool room.

“Sherlock?” His face would morph into something twisted, a smile that was almost a grimace and he would shoot.

John would sometimes try to push the dreams away, screaming himself awake. When his body temperature would cool, and his eyes would adjust to the darkness of the room, he’d remember himself again. Ashamed by the tears that would escape in the dark, but craving comfort from people who could not provide any.

When the time neared 2am, he gave up his battle for sleep and shuffled his way downstairs. The smell of chlorine from the abandoned jackets hit him full in the face and he gagged at the smell. A brief lapse in vigilance and he was back at that pool, back to watching two masterminds battle in front of him.

_“People have died”_

_“That’s what people DO!”_

 A furious need to clean claimed him and for the next several hours he dusted, swept, and scrubbed the flat clean. Finally as the sun began to rise, he collapsed on the worn sofa and blissfully fell into a dreamless sleep.

A loud whistling noise interrupted his happy escape and he stretched and groaned. Rolling over to try to get comfortable again, John cracked an eye open to see Sherlock in the kitchen. His robe hung loose on his frame but John could remember the muscles that worn fabric hid. The way they rippled as they ripped the bomb filled parka off of his body. For a moment, John was back at that pool. The overwhelming unease and fear, the small twinge of hurt when Sherlock saw him at first and the accusation in his eyes. Then the overpowering giddy relief when they thought it was all over.

_“I will burn the heart out of you”._

Blinking away the memory, John entered the kitchen and swallowed heavily.

“Good morning Sherlock”. He felt Sherlock’s tenseness before basically fleeing back to his bedroom. John set the empty mug down with a sigh. From the moment they had returned to the flat, Sherlock had avoided John like the plague. First claiming he had information to compile, then claiming exhaustion and barricading himself in his room. John felt guilty in a small way. He knew Sherlock never had to deal with death quite like he had. Never had to decide who lived or died, let alone see a colleague experience their mortality. Abandoning his want for tea, John started to shuffle back to the couch when Sherlock whizzed by and down the stairs.

“Sherlock, hey Sherlock wait a moment!” John attempted to follow but by the time he made it into his shoes, his flat mate was gone. He suddenly felt very alone in the flat, the stove ticked as it cooled from the tea. The morning traffic noise was muffled through the closed windows. He could hear the clock in his room ticking and John began to wonder (not for the first time) how Sherlock survived on his own so long. “Bugger it”. Bounding back up to his room, John grabbed clean jumper and jeans. Quick brush of the teeth, and in a blink he had joined the flowing masses on the streets below. If Sherlock wanted to avoid him, well he would avoid Sherlock.

The morning commute was as it has always been. People milled about on the streets, cars whizzed by carrying it’s passengers to and from their destinations. John took a quick stop into the clinic to let them know he’d be back in a few days’ time. It was normalcy inside the clinic, something his creature of habit both yearned for and loathed. He was waved off with smiles, told his vacation time was extended for another month and to enjoy his travels.

_‘Mycroft’._ Slightly annoyed by the older Holmes’s interference his huffed out of his office and back onto the bustling streets. With no real destination in mind he walked a few blocks in a random directly. His hand trembled slightly in his jacket pocket. He felt the sharp edges of a worn receipt and clutched it tightly. His lips were drawn in a stern line as he begged his mind to stop thinking. _‘Just be silent, for once in your miserable life stop it.’_

As he rounded another corner the hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention. Raising his head slightly with paranoia getting the better of him, he rushed his pace a bit to remain within the crowd ahead of him. _‘Safety in numbers’._

“John? John Watson”?

_‘Or not….’_ He turned towards the voice behind him shouting his name. A tall fellow was rushing past a gaggle of school kids waving his hand. John squinted in the sunlight trying to see his face. “It is you! Captain John Watson”. The man before him gave him a wave before smacking him on the arm. John stumbled slightly at his strength and blinked a few times. The man in front of him was tall, nearly taller than Sherlock and built like a linebacker. A short military buzz cut blended his blond hair to the skin of his scalp. Piercing gray eyes were sparkling as he waited for John to acknowledge him.

“I know it’s been awhile since the army, Colonel Moran, at your service”. John blinked again, the cobwebs of his memories gave way.

“Right, yes sorry, Moran. How are you?” John forced a smile, he remembered this solider. They had briefly served together, John’s troop passing by on the battlefront. He remembers the solider, not this smiling man in front of him.

“Been better, living life on the outside. I’ve been out 5 years, you?”

“Uh yeah, bought the same. Look hate to be rude but I’m late for uh,”

“It’s not nice to lie Johnny Boy.” John’s blood ran cold, a different voice echoed in his ear, a lilting irish voice. Moran smiled again, too many of his teeth were showing and it made John feel on edge.

“I know its awkward meeting up with old army buddies. Maybe we could get a pint together some time, just to catch up. Here.” Moran grabbed John’s hand and before he could react a small flip phone was shoved into his numb grip. “We’ll be in touch”.

Just like that he was gone, the crowd around them swallowed the giant man like waves swallowing a rock. John stood shocked for a few moments before an unfamiliar buzzing vibrated against his palm. Glancing at the phone in his hand, he took a steadying breath before flipping it open.

\--Don’t tell Sherlock our little secret, JM


	3. Moriarty Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's in our dreams that our conscience tries to organize the day's events. It's in our dreams where demons rule our soul. It's in our dreams where we try to come to term with what we beg of ourselves, and where we try to forget our nightmares. Moriarty doesn't dream, Moriarty catalogs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own anything related to Sherlock or the BBC, this is purely a writing of fiction for a good time. There will be some smutty goodness and some not so smutty goodness. Tags will be updated as needed. This is not beta'd. I appreciate reviews :)

Moriarty did not dream. He cataloged and planned. Each and every night he rebooted his hard drive with the day’s data. Each scheme, each payment, all filed precisely where intended within his own mind palace. He chuckled slightly at the thought. Sherlock’s analogy was a perfect example on their unique perspective of cataloging. Moriarty preferred to think of it more like a labyrinth however, one where if you were to look too closely, you’d be lost forever in his own madness.

The newest tunnel addition had walls lined with pictures and information Sherlock. A person so like his equal, and yet lacking in the fundamental capacity to remember that normal people were nothing special. Just silly, waste of space pets. Just off of that tunnel was a small alcove dedicated to one such pet, John Watson.

He didn’t take too much time analyzing the man before recent days. Standard issue breathing human, troubled youth, hardworking middle class, PTSD soldier. One thing he had not counted on was the apparent undying loyalty this dog had to his master. Downloading the files of memories he stored from the pool, he reviewed the moments he had John Watson on his own. An unconscious anomaly as his Tiger strapped the vest around his middle. The button down sweater making him seem older than he appeared. Moriarty watched with glazed over eyes. His anger barely simmering below the surface at this ordinary man.

When Moran had finished and stepped back, he smiled at his new present. Kneeling in front of the washed up soldier he carefully traced his fingers around the stubble on the jaw line. Down and around the adam’s apple and back up again to give light feather touches across his slack lips. Light breath ghosted across his finger pads and for a moment to the untrained eye it appeared as though Moriarty was being… tender.

A quick slap across the face caused the passed out man to groan in pain but he did not stir. Moriarty tutted before standing up and walking away. Investigating the invisible dirt under his nails, he smiled again at the sound of his Tiger punching the man until they heard a loud whimper and cough.

“That’s enough Sebby, go get into position”. The taller man nodded and left the changing room. Moriarty waited a few more beats until he heard the slight panic of breath and rush to stand.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you darling, explosives can be highly unstable. One wrong move and poof!” Moriarty turned to smile at his new play toy. “I’d hate for the party popper to pop before the guest of honor arrives”.

“Wh-where am I? What have you done”? Moriarty pouted slightly and shuffled his shoe like a naughty school boy.

“I thought you’d be more intelligent, give me a reason why Sherlock is soooo interested in you.” John merely stared at him, a glow of hatred behind his eyes.

“It’s you, you’re the one who’s been strapping those bombs to innocent people.” Moriarty merely shrugged.

“Weeelll I needed to get Sherlock playing somehow, and it’s been sooo much fun. We’re almost done with the game now poppet. The star player will arrive soon. You’ll be a good pet and behave while daddy and his new friend have a conversation right.” John spit at the ground at Moriarty’s feet and cursed at him.

“Do what you like with me, Sherlock will catch you. He always catches the bad ones.”

“ah, ah, ah pet. That’s not nice.” He quickly walked over to the man and grabbed his jaw roughly, a knife appearing from his jacket pocket pricked ever so delicately against his neck. “I would hate to ruin this little get together but I can be sooo changeable.” He watched as John gulped in nervousness and a small bead of blood began to slowly run down the smooth blade. Quietly they both heard a door open and close and the faint sound of footsteps could be heard just past the changing rooms.

“Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present. Oh, that’s what it’s all been for, hasn’t it? All your little puzzles; making me dance – all to distract me from this.” Moriarty smiled again at John and gave him a slight nudge towards the door.

“It’s your turn poppet”.

The rest was a haze for him, the playful banter back and forth, the coming to Jesus revelation he tried to bestow on his new best friend.

_‘That’s what people DO!’_

The surprising bit was the astounding loyalty this pet had for his master. The feel of the cheap parka coat against his throat was slightly thrilling, a move he did not fully expect from this broken army doctor.

“Good! Very good”. The horror in their eyes when his sniper raised his sights was a memory he was going to treasure for a very long time. And then, the joy of keeping them on edge, giving them that breath of relief to only snatch it away in an instant.

_‘You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk.’_ It was that line, that witty, playful comment that told Moriarty everything he needed to know. He opened his eyes just as the first rays of sun were peeking out from behind the trees surrounding his estate. The monitors in front of him had gone black from disuse. On the desk before him was a simple leather journal, his notes and musing on the day before scribbled while he organized. The words John Watson was written over, and over again for several pages and he smiled.

Moran was due for a city visit today, he’d use this opportunity to get a message to his new acquaintance. Pulling one of the random burner phones from the side desk drawer he quickly formulated a new game to play. One to keep Sherlock dizzy for months to come, one to keep him compliant as he worked on his new project.

_‘I’ll burn the heart out of you’._

_‘I have been reliably informed that I don’t have a heart’._ Moriarty smiled and he jumped up from behind his desk.

“Tiger! I feel like waffles!” As he exited his room, the printed still images of a John Hamish Watson rest on his desk, a large red X graffitied across his face.


	4. Lucky lady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's in our dreams that our conscience tries to organize the day's events. It's in our dreams where demons rule our soul. It's in our dreams where we try to come to term with what we beg of ourselves, and where we try to forget our nightmares. When we can't dream anymore we have to face reality. Sometimes reality is worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own anything related to Sherlock or the BBC, this is purely a writing of fiction for a good time. There will be some smutty goodness and some not so smutty goodness. Tags will be updated as needed. This is not beta'd. I appreciate reviews :)
> 
> *Please note we have some gun play in this chapter, no actual (above pg-13) violence but it is a bit cringey. You've so been notified.

The helicopter ride was uncomfortable and brought rapid flashes of times John Watson wished he could forget. The men in black suits behind him offered no word of explanation nor a friendly face as he watched the countryside give way to London below him. The pilot barked his coordinates and another clammy wave of nauseousness rolled around in his stomach. His hand shook slightly as the helicopter landed and he was ushered out and into Buckingham palace. He was politely but stubbornly pushed and prodded until he was shown through a large ornate hall into a smaller receiving area. There on the couch was a stubborn looking Sherlock in—wait was that a sheet?

Sitting gingerly on the much too expensive couch, John snuck another look at Sherlock and begged his hormones to calm down as new images flashed in his mind threatening to make him blush.

“Are you wearing any pants”?

“…No…”

John nodded, “Okay”, and continued to sit for a moment before they briefly made eye contact. The mischievous gleam in Sherlock’s eyes tore down his captain resolve and they both burst into laughter. For a moment, John felt a weight lift off of his shoulders, like the past few weeks of torturous cases and running about were faded memories. The insistent texts he received from his new “friend” a bad dream. He was just he and Sherlock, like the pool had never happened. Like Moriarty never happened.

After some time, and after a lovely cuppa was poured, John chose to do what he does best, and listen. He listened as Mycroft and this Equerry spoke of national importance, blackmail, the whole nine yards. He was almost beginning to enjoy the task at hand when an all too familiar buzzing began in his pocket. He froze, the tea just half way to his mouth and he felt his skin begin to grow clammy. Again the phone buzzed and it took his self-control to keep from flinching at the new constant of his life.

“John, you might want to put that cup back in your saucer now”. Slightly startled, John clinks the fine china and does what Sherlock says, missing the slight frown on his friends face. He’s too preoccupied by the 3rd buzzing he can feel now, like a rattling snake in his pocket. He spends his time guessing what is in store for him this time. The final bits of information and social niceties barely phased him as Sherlock rattled his deductions and then they were off. In the whirlwind that is Sherlock Holmes. First to 221, then to the Woman’s address. Each moment John felt his body relaxing, the dreaded vibration would begin again and the whole cycle would start over. As he waited in the kitchen with Kate, he took the time to read the messages that awaited him.

_\---Oohhh Buckingham, that sounds lovely--JM_

_\---Do you think I could get an invite?--JM_

_\---It’s not nice to ignore your messages Doctor--JM_

_\---I could be a patient and dying, what would you do then?--JM_

_\---Don’t ignore Daddy Johnny boy--JM_

_\---Doesn’t Sherlock just look divine--JM_

_\---Too bad he’s married to his work--JM_

_\---Though I doubt you’d be first choice--JM_

_\---Tick Tock Doc--JM_

“Here you go”. John startled and hurriedly put the phone in his pocket as Kate handed him the bowl of water and a towel. Giving her a brief strained smile he took what was offered and went back to the sitting room. Trying to put the messages in the back of his mind he walked through the open door.

“Right, this should do it”. John stopped dead, his brain freezing at the scene before him. “I’ve missed something, haven’t I”?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sherlock couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was about the Woman that intrigued him so. It may have been her honest open policy about who, and what she was. Or perhaps it laid more in the physical sense, contrary to popular belief, he was no robot. Either way, it took longer than he cared to admit to move on from the ‘Scandal in Belgravia’ as John decided to name it. Methodically plucking on his violin’s strings, Sherlock let his mind wander through his palace halls, putting everything in its proper place. Another case solved, another mystery unraveled, another distraction gone to occupy his mind. Now he was left, yet again, with the enigma thoughts that were John Watson.

He had distanced himself as best as he had seen fit, taking more cases offered from Mycroft, deducing what he felt would be the best scathing remarks to the imbeciles at Scotland yard. Keeping his faculties distracted helped him compartmentalized the new sentiments that were restlessly growing in his heart. John had also taken to disappearing for long periods of time into his room, a new strand in the ever growing spider web that threatened to capture Sherlock’s imagination. What was he doing up there? Was he talking to one of his numerous dates? Was he cleaning his ever sparse room? Was he just avoiding Sherlock as much as Sherlock avoided him? Questions that left an uncomfortable weight on his chest and clogged his mind. Plucking particularly sharp on a string he stood and dropped the violin on the couch.

“I’m going out John, don’t wait up”. Without even waiting for a reply he grabbed his scarf and coat and bounded down the stairs. Molly had a new cadaver that he must simply see to for his new experiments.

 

 

 

_\---We must not look at goblin men, we must not buy their fruits, who knows upon what soil they fed, their hungry, thirsty roots….. Hungry Johnny Boy? --JM_

It was like some bad stalker from a made for TV movie. John kept staring at the message until his eyes would blur over. It had been weeks since this phone came into his life, weeks since he felt he could have a moments rest. The phone had filled up with random messages and pictures. Some were of Sherlock and him on a case. Standing outside a crime scene, or sitting behind glass in Lestrade’s office. Most were of him, reading the paper in the flat, stopping at Tesco, sleeping. The grainy black and white images of his still form on his bed freaked him out at first, he trashed around his room looking for the hidden camera that just had to be there, something physical to show for this insane game Moriarty was playing.

\--- _Ah ah ah pet, don’t ruin our fun just yet, --JM_

He gave up after that, resigned to wait this out and see what the mad man wanted. He had briefly considered telling Sherlock, after that first message he wanted to turn right around and throw the stupid thing away. But the forever locked background of Sherlock’s head with a revolver silently pointed at it kept him from acting. The lingering threat that if John did the wrong move, it’d be over. No more Sherlock, no more reprieve from the life he had before, if it even was a life. No more raven curls to wonder about, or sharp wit to laugh at. John shook his head and tossed the phone onto his pillow. Flopping backwards onto the bed he groaned as a fresh wave of a headache started to form behind his eyes. He heard Sherlock’s muffled shout but didn’t bother to respond. He counted his breaths, willing himself to wake up from this nightmare that formed around him. ‘ ** _Dammit John, you’re a soldier. Deal with this!’_** Huffing at his awesome pep talk, John rolled off of the bed and slowly opened his door listening, silence. Sherlock must have left. Taking what precious time he had to be alone, John made the very informed decision a nice cup of tea and some pills were all he needed to tackle this monumental problem he faced.

Leaving the phone upstairs, he padded his way towards the kitchen, heart set on a steaming mug and a few of the biscuits Mrs. Hudson was so kind to bring them. While he waited for the water to boil, he slammed himself a few Advil and rubbed at his eyes.

“There has got to be a way out of this”. He mumbled to no one. At least he thought it was to no one, the voice from the living room however made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on edge and his mind enter flight or fight mode.

“Aww, Sebby, sounds like Johnny boy hasn’t been enjoying my little messages. Sorry sweet cakes, you only get out, when I say you can.” A large hand came down hard on his bad shoulder while another punched him in his side. John wheezed out in pain as he was shuffled and forced to sit in his red lounge chair. He felt a rough rope pulled tight across his wind pipe and for a moment he panicked trying to claw it away. “Ah ah Doctor, the more you touch the more he’ll pull”. As if to prove his point the rope slide against his skin, leaving a burning impression on his skin.

John tightly squeezed his eyes shut, willing for this to be a dream. For him to bolt awake in his bed like he always did. He wished he could snap out of this nightmare like he always did so he could laugh at his stupidity. Of course Moriarty isn’t here, how could he be? Mycroft would have spotted him and a team would have surrounded the place in a few moments.

The steady pressure of foreign hands on his knees kept him grounded however, their slow ascent up his thighs and over his stomach caused him to shiver and yet he still refused to open his eyes. ‘ _This can’t be happening.’_ John felt a ghost of a breath across his cheek and Moriarty’s lilting voice vibrated against the shell of his ear.

“Wanna come out and play Johnny? I’ve got an itchy trigger finger here and I’m just-“ John felt a weight settle over his hips as Moriarty sat himself on his lap “-itching to see what makes our good Doctor tick.” A sharp tug on the rope around his neck made John gasp and his eyes flew open. There, in front of him and impossibly close was his new nightmare, his new reason to fear sleep and the things that go bump in the night. The eyes of a mad man were cold and lit from an insane fire within the soulless bastard. So memorized by the demon on top of him, he barely registered that he was being asked a question.

“Have you ever played Russian roulette Johnny Boy?” John focused on the revolver that was passed into his line of vision. Moriarty cocked the chamber and pulled the bullets out one by one, plopping them onto his lap between them. “I’ll take your silence as a yes. SO! We’re going to have a bit of fun.” The smile looked genuine and John shivered at his coldness. “But, we’re going to add a twisssssst to it, I’m going to ask you a question John. A question about you, and every time you lie to me-“ Moriarty pointed the revolver at his head and squeezed, the echoing click made John jump and sweat began to trickle down the back of his neck. “And every time you tell the truth-“ He turned the gun towards himself, licked the barrel obscenely while holding Johns eye contact and swallowed the barrel whole. For a brief moment he wished all the worse luck on the planet to fall on James Moriarty’s head, to end this before it even began. The hallow click stole that quick moment of hope however and John sagged against the back of the chair.

“Goodness, I don’t know if I should be offended or not by that.” Moriarty contemplated him for a moment before shrugging, “all well, c’est la vie, now to begin!” With that Moriarty jumped off of John’s lap and circled the living room, his eyes roaming all over the space.

“We’ll start easy, get you warmed up and all, what does the H. in John H. Watson stand for?” John licked his lips, unprepared to play this new game of cheat death but felt he had no choice until either Mycroft figured out what was going on, or until Sherlock did.

“Hamish.” Moriarty’s eyes lit up.

“Very good Doctor Watson!” He took the revolver and cocked the barrel. John caught a glimpse of a bullet before he spun it and closed it again. “Let luck be a lady tonight my dear”.


End file.
